"'That is a question that philosophers might discuss,' said Madame Damien, 'but we need not. Whether you have the right or not it is evident that you choose to exercise it. And what is this right?'
"'The right to tell you the truth. The right to tell you that I do not love you, that I have made a terrible blunder.'
"The little hand over my mouth trembled violently, and slipped away. I could hear the girl next to me breathing so distinctly that it seemed odd that the others did not hear also. Perhaps they were too much occupied with their own affair.
"'The right to tell me that you do not love me,' repeated Madame; 'but you have so often told me that you do love me, and you have told me of your love so eloquently, that now when you come to me and say that you have made a blunder, naturally I have the right to question you. Here are two opposite statements. How am I to know which to believe?'
"'I am telling you the truth, now.'
"'Perhaps; you may be right. You may know your heart at last, and if what you say is really true, of course I have no desire to try to keep what you only supposed to be love, however eloquently you told about it, however well you played the part. The awkward thing is that to-morrow, next week, by the new moon perhaps, you may be at my feet again singing the same old songs, old love songs. You will tell me that what you say then is truth, but that what you are telling me now is false. How, then, shall I know what to think?'
"'What I tell you now is true. I shall not tell you otherwise at any time in the future.'
"'Of this you are quite sure?'
"'Quite sure!'
"Up to this point the woman had spoken softly, almost with love in her voice. It sounded like a mother talking with her son who was confessing a change of heart, or rather a change of sweethearts. Now, suddenly, all was changed. When she spoke again it was in the voice of rage, almost of hate. It was the woman spurned; more than that,—it was the woman jealous of the rival who had replaced her in her lover's heart.